


Can you feel this?

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Gen, fictober 18, graphic descriptions of illness and impending death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 22:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16168226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: Beth tries to share the sensations of the dying process with Jo, in hopes that her sister will be able to use them in her writing.  Jo ponders the morality of writing, and whether or not it's good to put dark and painful stories out into the world.  Written for fictober18 .





	Can you feel this?

Two days before Beth died, she beckoned Jo over to her bedside, and took her hand. 

“Can you feel this?” she whispered, placing Jo’s hand beneath her breast. Beth was all skin and bones under her nightgown, her breathing thick and unsteady. And her heart. Her heart beat a thready, unsteady rhythm beneath Jo’s palm. 

“I thought you might want to know,” Beth whispered. Jo’s head was bowed, her eyes closed. “For your writing. The next time somebody dies in your stories, you can describe their heart.” 

Jo sucked in a deep breath, and jerked her hand away as if burned. 

“Jo?” 

“It's alright, Bethy.” Jo’s voice had gone gruff and mannish, as it always did when she tried to suppress strong emotions. She stood up, and began to fuss over Beth, plumping her pillows, and straightening her blankets. By the time that Jo had finished, she was able to offer her sister a tremulous attempt at a smile. “Do you remember that professor I described in my letters, while I was off galavanting about New York?” 

“Of course.” 

Jo took Beth's hand again, sitting down beside her. 

“He made me realize quite a lot,” Jo began, tracing Beth’s thin fingers. “Foremost, that I ought to be careful what I put out into the world with my writing. I shan't write anything terrible, or anything that could hurt somebody.” 

“Do you think what's happening to me is terrible?” Beth asked. When Jo did not answer, Beth continued. “It isn't. It's a part of life, which we all must experience sooner or later.” 

Still, Jo said nothing. 

“I feel as though I’ve experienced so much of life through your writing. I've only ever been shy little Beth, with my dolls and my kittens. Why, I'm already a woman of nineteen, and _still_ my life is nothing but _dolls_ , and _kittens_ , and marmee, and papa, and you, and the pull of my tide going out. I've never been at the center of a love affair, nor any kind of scandal, and I can't say I've ever wanted to, but I think I’ve had a taste of those feelings. You write them so well.” 

“Ah, and that's the last thing I ever wanted to hear. I’d hate to think I'd corrupted anyone before I put an end to it, least of all you.” 

This drew from Beth a wry smile, quite unlike her. “I've been reading your stories since the day I learned how to read. Do you see me lying here, a poor and corrupted thing?” 

“But perhaps someone else…” 

“You’re good,” Beth whispered, full of tender affection. “And everything that you write can't help being so dear and so full of goodness. Even when you write about sword fights and kidnappings. You wouldn't be my Jo if you didn't.” 

Jo sighed, for Beth seemed on the verge of falling asleep, and she'd given her a great deal to think about. In the dim light, Jo studied her sister, committing to memory those painful details which sickness had wrought upon her. She studied Beth’s hollowed cheeks, and the dark circles under her eyes, which gave them a bruised appearance. She contemplated how a certain smell clung to her sister these days, one that was sweet yet unpleasant and foreboding. These details, Jo tucked away into her mind and held close. 

Good or bad, illuminating or corrupting, at the moment it was all so immediate that Jo could not yet imagine having the strength to write about it when the time came.


End file.
